Templar Temptation
by Rainbow-man
Summary: A life in the tower is hardly a life at all, but there are lessons to be learned everywhere. A slash  m/m  with Alistair, involving an Elven mage with an affinity for Templars.


Templar Temptation

_Author's note (disclaimer) : I understand. The title is horrible. Sorry. This story is going to be a slash with Alistair, so just letting you know. On that note, this does have a continuity to it, but in this first chapter thing there is the main plot (the first part) and then a side story about Lilithein's tattoos, because they're sort of a big deal to him. On with the show!  
_

He was humming a soft chant, one of the only sounds in the bunkers he shared with his fellow mages. He sat alone on his bed- a small, drab thing in the very corner of the room, the one most untouched by light- and read. His living space was far away from the others, which he didn't mind, and he got both the top and bottom bunk because, as he was living in the worst part of the bunker, he could at least get extra space to make up for the lack of air circulation and light. This isolation, however, only furthered his suspicions that he was indeed "the new kid" in the tower. He'd been "the new kid," as far as he could tell, for about seven years, and the lack of any real friendships was starting to ware on him, whether or not he'd like to admit such a thing.

His family was Dalish; he remembered them fondly, but the past years had stolen his mother and father's faces from memory. He was thinking of them one day when he felt the pang of loss in his heart that their faces were fading so fast from his mind. That instance was long ago, perhaps only a year into living in the tower and thusly, the pain had subsided to only a dull throb, a soft hurt that he could easily sustain. Never the less, he remembered their words, and those gave him more strength than any image could provide.

_Lilat'hein. _His name, the word for "golden sky," in Dalish. There was no symbolic significance to the word specifically, and other, _domesticated_ elves he met wouldn't have known the translation even if they wracked their brains. It was a sacred word in the Dalish elves' narrow vocabulary, one of the few words they still knew; he relished his title, as if it was some great secret only him, and the rest of his clan, his _family, _would know. He was angered by the new spelling of it, the name so ruined by the shemlens that captured him and slaughtered mercilessly his family and clan members. "Lilithein," they called him, _branded _him, ignoring the careful separation of the alien words, his name falling as clumsily out of human mouths as a new born child's first steps.

The thought sent a small wave of indignation through him that he swiftly ended, learning long ago that such anger was not only useless, but very harmful, and harshly punishable here in the walls of the tower. Sighing, he rolled over on his bed, a familiar expression- a mix of boredom and annoyance- plastered on his face as he stared into the ceilings dusty crags. His humming was ceased, but he could still hear the quiet murmurs of the other's around him, and he couldn't help but smile bitterly at their camaraderie. The new kid.

He was roused from his thoughts as footsteps echoed in the huge room. A clink of armor accompanied them, a feared sound, almost always spelling out some sort of demoralizing action, be it a mockery, or glare, or- worse yet- a blow. The room fell silent save for those steps, and he could hear with no small amount of dread their maker coming nearer and nearer to his side of the room. Quickly shoving the journal under his blankets, and removing a book from under his pillow, he pulled it open to a random page and tried to look inconspicuous as he peered over the top of his bunk-bed to see the templar bee-lining straight for him. A rush of wicked excitement ran up his spine and through his body as he saw the man approaching him.

He could see, as the helm of the man was off, fiery red hair. It was short cut, spiked at the front as was such common hair for the templar's. His face was devoid of stubble, and he looked far too young to have the expression of such distain and hurt that seemed etched into his features. _It seems like tower life isn't just hard on the mages, _thought Lilithein as the man continued approaching. The templar's eyes were a rather mellow shade of brown, honey colored and burning with a fire that seemed that only this one mage could see. He was very plain; nothing notable about him in any sense of the word. The only thing remarkable about the templar was his hair, but as it was usually covered with a heavy helm, that was usually an observation no one could make of him.

As he reached Lilithein, the mage jumped down from his position on the bunk bed, staring the human in the eye. As they locked each other's gaze, they both sneered, and the other mages in the room were hard-pressed not to watch the two. Lilithein did his very damndest to make life hell for all the templars, and this was sure to be no exception. The stood there, glaring at each other until someone would say something. The room was quiet, and the templar was the one to speak first.

"I've been sent for you. First enchanter Irving says you're ready for the Harrowing, and you'll be needed soon." As the templar spoke, his voice weak and grating to the mages, Lilithein had a hard time keeping himself under control.

"Oh. And when, _sir," _he said the word with such distain that the other mages were surprised that the templar didn't strike him, "do you suppose that I'll be needed? Specifically." He spat the words at the templar, spurring him on. The templar, his face growing darker, grabbed Lilithein's arm and an almost euphoric electricity ran through the mage. The grip was painful, but Lilithein, sick of his isolation as he was, savored the feeling, hoping that it marred his skin so he'd have something to remember the contact by. It was highly unlikely, as his skin was the darkest brown that belonged to anyone in the tower, but he hoped it did.

"When you're damn well called for, knife-ears." Tensions rose, and the templar could soon feel the same electricity from the touch as the mage did, but it was more a literal electricity; in Lilithein's excited state, he seemed to be sparking, his fingertips charged with unreleased energy. The templar, growing nervous of the scrutiny of the other mages watching them so intently in the room, squeezed harder on Lilithein's arm and drug him from the room, with Lilithein trialing behind him with a wily glint in his eyes.

The walked for a while, and when they got past the first enchanter's room, they kept walking, an unspoken agreement of where they were going already deep in their minds. They walked to some of the higher levels of the tower, passing virtually no one, finally making it to a small room with an etched plaque of "do not enter," of the door. The room was missed by mage and templar alike, both believing it having some important and secret use to the other. The two opened the door quietly and disappeared within it. The templar, locking the door behind them, was suddenly pinned up against the wooden door by Lilithein, and soon they were kissing torridly in the darkened room.

It was almost violent; Lilithein's mouth gnashing against the templar's as if he cared nothing for the pain he could be causing his recipient. The templar, though stunned for a moment by the sudden invasion of space, regained his mind and followed in Lilithein's movement with equal ferocity. His heavy hand ran up Lilithein's side, the rough metal of the armored glove catching on the cloth robes the mage wore. His hand was rough, causing as much pain as it did pleasure to the mage. A shudder ran down Lilithein's body, and he pressed himself harder into the templar, his body begging for the other man's heat. It would not be felt, however, as the armor the templar wore prevented close contact; instead, the mage ran his bare hands through the templar's hair, feeling the coarseness under his fingers and savoring the sensation, savoring the intimacy.

Soon, the franticness of the touches faded away, leaving only a gentleness in it's wake. Lilithein, his longing for social contact sated, relaxed in the templar's grasp, and the templar, simply allowing his mage to control the physicality of their tryst, delicately placed his gloved hands on the sides of Lilithein's face before finally allowing them to drop into a relaxed, but firm, embrace around the elf. The kiss, once manic, was now a slow and sad thing; the feeling of loss that Lilithein knew would arrive so shortly after this had begun was already starting to make it's presence known, even though there was nothing he could do to stop their inevitable separation.

Finally breaking the contact, Lilithein embraced the armored form of his templar and whispered into his ear, breathless, "What kept you, Klain?"

Klain was silent for a while before finally answering. "I can't come to you every day. It's a blessing that we're able to steal away as often as we do; I'd really rather not endure any more of the Reverend Mother's lectures than I must. She already thinks I'm too soft on you as it is." He sighed, and pulled Lilithein off him so that he could look at the shorter man in the eyes. His honey eyes met Lilithien's gray pupils, the sight of them off-putting to anyone who wasn't used to their heavy gaze already. Lilithein furrowed his brow, and looked down at the floor; he knew what Klain said was true, and he'd heard it enough times that he knew that he should stop asking. He was just hoping on day that Klain would tell him was hadn't seen him in a while because "he was too busy thinking of a way for the two of them to escape together."

"There is... No way that I…?" Lilithein was simply muttering half-formed sentences, and Klain had long since discovered that it did him not good to try and make any sense of them. He sighed, and planted a small kiss on the forehead of his elf. This mage- so frail looking, and yet so accursedly powerful- was his only tether to the tower, his only tether to life. It wasn't as if he contemplating suicide or anything (he never had, and he never would, considering his fear of death and all that) but he had so little light his bleak life that Lilithein, his sun, moon, and stars, had shown him how vibrant life can be in so bleak an existence. He wasn't close to his family; he left them long ago, forsaking the name Cousland and joining the Templars in a vain attempt to appease the one thing that had been kind to him in life- the Chantry. He was alone, except for this mage and all the joys he brought to Klain; he wouldn't give him up for the world, and if the worse he had to put up with was semi-coherent words (and the mage's power to destroy massive armies with a single, well placed magic blast, of course) he would.

He laughed a little in his throat, and the sound echoed slightly in his hollow armor. He was never very strong, and the outfit he wore was flattering, but made him seem much, MUCH bigger than truly he was (though only Lilithein knew that). Lilithein, as if picking up on this thoughts, began running his hands along the many buckles that kept the suit together.

"Can I help you take that infernal thing off? It's very hard to lay on your chest when I have adornments driving into my eyes." He looked at Klain, and with a small nod, began working his nimble fingers at the latches. Klain, too, began shucking off the armor, and once it was off he got up and stretched as Lilithein followed him to the deeper corner of the room. In this small, unknown room sat a few chairs, and table, some dusty books on an old shelf, and a medium sized cot. It seemed to be a break room of sorts for the templars, but the books that resided there were very advanced spell and enchanting books; the strange mix of templar and mage, though fitting a place for their secret meeting, was always very perplexing to the pair.

Klain, wearing very plain but comfortable clothes under his armor, sat on the bed. He was a very ordinary person, with an average voice, height, temperament… yet no other person in the tower was so infinitely interesting and beautiful to Lilithein. He was thin, but not unhealthily so, and his face, though sharp and constantly contorted in worry or resentment, was attractive but otherwise unmemorable. He seemed always to be tired, and the only thing that could be conspicuous about him would be his dark red hair. It was always soft, and carried a very natural scent with it- it always smelled like trees, and the salt water air from right outside the tower. It was Lilithien's favorite thing about Klain, and he ran his hand through it absentmindedly as they sat on the bed beside each other.

A comfortable silence worked it's way between them, and soon they were simply sitting on the bed, tangled up in each other, thinking. Klain looked at Lilithein, who seemed at the time to be close to sleep, his eyes closed and his body relaxed. Klain smiled as his eyes traced the mage's face, scanning the dark tattoo's around his eyes and square jaw before finally settling on this white hair.

Lilithein, having nothing but books and studies to occupy his time, took more time on his visage than any one else in the tower. He didn't think himself to be vain, but he took great care in his appearance; in a place a restricted and unforgiving as this, it was one of the things he had complete control over. He would spend hours brushing his shock of bright white hair, looking in the mirror at his face, and the tattoos he so despised. He would think about his family, how he might escape the tower, about the things he would study, or places he'd visit when he'd finally get the courage to run away from the tower. As he twisted his hair into a braid he would laugh about all the people he'd meet, and day dream about the conversations they'd have.

Lilithein was highly self conscious about that fact, however; appearance was one of his least favorite topics of conversation. He would never admit to spending so long preening himself, as he knew that anyone else in the tower would laugh at him if they knew was he was really thinking about as brushstroke after brushstroke ran through his hair. He hated talking about the way he looked, and even complements were meet with a scowl. Purposefully, Lilithein would hide his face in a book, or under a cowl, or bow his head. Many of the mages would mock that his chin had left a dent in his chest. He would meet their scorn with silence.

Klain was the only person who knew about this, though- he would be, being the only person who Lilithein actually spoke to in the tower, and he was careful to be discreet when eyeing the mage. Even so, he was still bitter that Lilithein wouldn't accept complements form him, bitter that his affection wasn't enough to make Lilithein feel beautiful like he felt when he was in Lilithein's presence. Sighing, he nestled himself into the bed and followed Lilithein into the realm of the dreaming.

_One normal day in the tower._

Klain and Lilithein were sitting together in their secret room, Klain telling Lilithein about all of the things right outside the tower, like the boats, the water, and how terrible "The Spoiled Princess" was as a pub. They would tense as they heard someone walk by, but as the sound died, they would go back to relaxing against each other and chatting, as they always did. They had long since grown comfortable in each other's presence, and the conversation was starting to die. A thought popped into a Klain's mind, and he didn't think twice about saying them, though looking back, he mentally berated himself for his epic sense of tact.

"Why do you hide your face?" Klain asked quietly. Lilithein looked at the floor, a slight blush finding his cheeks as he tried to choose delicate words for his templar to understand.

"It's not my face that I hide. It's those…" His voice started calm, but was gaining volume and contempt as he continued his sentence. "those…. _my _damnable tattoos." With that, he made a small, angry growl as he covered his eyes with his hands. Klain furrowed his brow, and gently pulled the mage's hands from his face, and almost pointedly Lilithein looked away from Klain's direct gaze, though he made no real effort to stop his lover from gazing at the pure black markings that stained him. The tattoos, almost butterfly looking on his dark skin, were a pure black, resting right overtop his eyes. Klain realized, and rather stupidly at that, that those marks were the reason his pale eyes looked so accursedly _white. _He felt silly for not realizing it earlier.

"Why do you hate them so much? They're nothing new in the tower; they're not unattractive, either. It could've been worse." Klain continued to look at the mage, who seemed to be getting angrier and angrier. Lilithein pulled his hands away roughly from Klain's, and he got up, pacing the room. He seemed very conflicted. Many times, his mouth opened, then closed again as if he was thinking the correct way to speak. The calm he'd felt moments ago was replaced by a manic whirl of emotion. He had been looking at himself that very morning, and was reflecting on their existence. He would've smiled at the coincidence if it were a topic he cared even remotely to converse about.

"I _ABHOR _them. It goes far past hate!" His voice was getting higher in pitch, a telling sign that he was getting emotional. "These… these human _brands _cover what was once there! I had nothing on my face, a tradition my family once followed." He went silent, then continued once more. "Now I have these dark stains on my face, yet another thing to remind me that I have nothing to cling to in this horrible tower. I can't simply _burn _them away- blasting magic in my face would do me no good. I can't claim to be one of my clan, as my _skin _isn't even mine anymore! How will I look on the other Dalish elves when I see them, knowing they look back on me with eyes unfeeling- knowing that my human-made chains are so painfully plastered on my _face?_" His voice got quieter and quieter as he continued to speak, the sheer hopelessness of those thoughts reopening a wound he thought was long since dead.

It was one thing to think about his life alone, but he'd never done so out loud, and certainly never with some one whom he held so dear… worse still was the thought that he would, in truth, never leave this tower. He would never see other wild elves again, never see anything even remotely resembling the life he once knew as a proud Dalish. Even if he should spy the wild elves, they would abandon him, thinking him to be one of the shem's little house-elves, who clean the castle and live a life happily subservient to the human overlords. It was the first time in many years that such a hurt struck him- the pain of his own pride's brokenness, the loss of his family, (both in body and in memory) and the loss of his entire life. Family replaced by isolation, home replaced by cold stone walls, proud lineage replaced with a misguided self loathing and depreciation for a mage's power he was born unable to prevent…

He bit his cheek, swallowing back tears he had no time for. He didn't want to cry right now. He was with someone he loved… bitterly, the thought came into his head. _A templar was a poor substitute for an entire clan, and parents that loved you. _The truth of that thought burned his mind, and it echoed in his head. He began to laugh.

His voice, deep and even, was shaking the room with peals of laughter that soon degenerated into hysterical sobs. He wasn't good at crying either, much to his dismay; some people could just cry delicately, beautifully even (he'd seen the mage girls do many a time), but he was not one of them. He didn't know whether he was supposed to try to let it out, or keep it in. Letting it come "naturally" was out of the question, because naturally, he didn't cry. "Natural" left him with an ugly face and odd breathing, emitting weird peeping sounds with his eyes leaking so bad he couldn't see. He decided to try and hold it back, and though he failed miserably, at least he could try to maintain a shred of dignity as he broke down in front of the only person he'd ever felt like impressing in that damn tower. It came and passed like lightning, and after half a minute trying to stem the flow of the tears, he was doing a rather good job of keeping himself semi-composed. He was able to get them to stop pouring down his face, and he didn't shake or hitch his breath.

Klain, unsure of what to do, felt his heart grow heavier and heavier within his chest. He didn't really know what to do in this situation; he'd never had to comfort anyone, and could only imagine that anything his blundering self could say would only make things worse- obviously, since he was the one to cause the usually aloof Lilithein to break down into sobs he had some great power for royally screwing things up. He decided, being the start of the problem, that he needed to at least _attempt_ making it better, even if he knew said attempt was doomed to fail. Getting up, he walked to Lilithein who was now entirely turned away from the templar. He grabbed Lilithein's shoulder, and though the mage tried to shrug it off, Klain held firm, and squeezed reassuringly. Lilithein again tried to shrug it away, but Klain again didn't relent, and Lilithein was forced to find comfort in the other's touch. (With the bitter thoughts echoing in his mind, though, Lilithein couldn't whole-heartedly say he wanted to accept anything the other was offering him.) He remained turned away from the templar, but put a hand on the templar's. The tears had past, as quick as they had come, but the emptiness he was feeling wasn't going anywhere. He didn't want to look at Klain.

The templar took the hint, and slowly removed his hand from Lilithein's shoulder. Lilithein let it slide off his body, and suddenly, the lack of physical contact shocked him out of his thinking. The loneliness he felt in that single second, with even Klain gone, scared him, and he realized how stupid he was being. It wasn't Klain's fault the other templar's were royal bastards. He turned quickly and looked at Klain, who seemed thoroughly put out. He caught the templar's arm as he was heading towards his armor. Klain turned and looked back at him, but all he could see was a human face- not the templar he loved, but a shemlen. He'd never felt so isolated in his life. He let go of the human's arm, and turned away again. A morose Klain put his armor on, and left, leaving only silence and isolation in the room.

It was a fairly miserable day or, as anyone who lived in the tower would tell you, a normal day in the tower.


End file.
